Everything was pulsing around her. Raised arms and grinning strangers' faces showed themselves as if in stop-freeze motion with every flash of the strobe lights. The bass of indistinguishable music was so loud it literally shook every cell in Eve's body. At the moment, she was just tipsy enough to enjoy it. Typically, she was uncertain how to behave in such places. Oscar had taken her out to clubs a few times at her request, but she'd soon realized that he liked to do his own thing at them, and she'd been able to discern in his awkwardly reserved behavior that she wasn't an entirely welcome presence at such places. In her early college days, too, she'd gone out dancing with her sister and friends. Dressing up wasn't really her thing, though, and neither was getting it on with strangers on the dance floor, so those excursions had been routinely replaced with calmer nights at local concerts and neighborhood bars. So to be here, now, was a little bizarre. It brought back incalculable memories of revelry, though, and she was enjoying the experience for that reason.

This place was, at least, more bearable than others. Downtown clubs or those in Wrigleyville and Lincoln Park typically consisted of beautiful young things that wore as little clothing as possible and sought sexual escapades on the sweat-and-lust-infused dance floor. Eve had never felt in place at such establishments. She wasn't "hot," she knew. High-heels were fun, but she had no cleavage of any sort to show off, and she never knew how to talk to the men that tended to approach her (even as seldom as the experience was). This place, though, was clever. It was a converted townhouse, and it retained all the rooms of the old home, minus most of the furniture. In place of a front hall and sitting room was the bar, with lots of loungey sofas and high benches against the walls. Where a kitchen and dining room might have been were dance floors and more lounging space, and upstairs, instead of bedrooms, was another bar and an even larger dancefloor. Upstairs and down played different music, but the entire place vibrated with beat and life. The crowd here cared about a different sort of appearance than the crowds at other clubs. They were all in jeans and tennis shoes and strange quirky things like caps and glasses, suspenders and hoodies. Mingling, for Eve, should have felt more laid back, but for some reason, she was having a hard time with it.

The dancefloor was amusing, and she had fun hopping around for a bit, but when her drinks wore off, she began to feel silly and went to look for the friends with whom she'd arrived.

Weaving her way through the throngs of people, Eve found the stairs and went down them, scanning the dark spots for signs of her acquaintances. It was tough to see; dim lights were placed sporadically throughout the hallways, but besides these and the strobe-light on the dance floor, the only light emitted came from candles along the bar and on the tables, which, had the house-bar not been filled with people, would have given the entire place the ambience of a haunted house. She'd just head down to the bar. Whether her friends were there or not, she needed another drink, anyway.

This was the first time Eve had gone out since last seeing Oscar. Her heart was still dreadfully pained with thoughts of him, but she inherently knew things were over. Eve wanted a man in her life, not a boy. If Oscar didn't have the courage to find her, to reconnect with her, then she knew their lives would inevitably have gone separate ways, whether it had been sooner or later. She didn't understand all that had contributed to the end of them, but she felt that it had to do with more than his embarrassment the night she'd picked him up from that random teenager's house. Other things separated the two of them, as well.

Rachel had convinced her to come out, tonight. For the past several weeks, her Toast co-worker had been on her case to get out and do something. Although Rachel was hardly one to emulate when it came to dealings with men, Eve had always admired her for her tenacity. Eventually, she'd been worn down enough to consent to head to this place on Saturday. Their small group had consisted of Rachel, some guy that Rachel had been dating, and another co-worker—Sasha was her name. She was young—twenty—but had a fake ID and had desperately wanted to get out and do something. So the four of them had headed out after work, with Rachel gleefully offering to drive (whispering to Eve that she wanted to see her nice and drunk and making out with strangers at the bar all night; Eve had laughed awkwardly at this, not really wanting that at all but knowing Rachel had high hopes for her in that regard).

Eve was approaching the bar. She had yet to find any of the friends with whom she'd arrived. She'd lost them somewhere on the dancefloor, most likely, but she didn't want to go back up there. Her feet were sore, and she needed a little break from the noise and the motion.

The bar was packed, but just as she arrived at it, a couple was getting up from their seats, and she promptly slid right onto a stool. The smile must have been apparent on her face, because the bartender approached and asked what she wanted, telling her she had a cute smile. The compliment served to rejuvenate Eve; she rarely scorned a compliment.

"What'll you have?" the man asked her.

Eve pursed her lips in thought, feeling very adorable at the moment and not the least ashamed for it. She asked him what was good; he suggested something and within minutes was back in front of her, handing her the drink he'd advised. Slipping her card across the counter, the man waved it back to her, smiling and telling her it was paid for.

She was sure her blush was noticeable, even in the dim lighting. "You don't need to do that," she told him.

"I didn't," he responded, much to her surprise. "They did." He pointed down to the other end of the bar, where Rachel and her date sat. They waved at Eve, and she smiled at them, a little ashamed of the fact that she was disappointed.

She got up and joined her friends, playfully admonishing them for leading her to believe someone was hitting on her.

"That's the whole point," Rachel said. "Fun, isn't it? I mean, to feel like that. Truth is, nobody really buys girls drinks all mysteriously, right Mike?" Her date grinned sheepishly.

Eve nodded. "That's all right. I'm not sure I trust strangers anyway."

"Strangers are the best kind!" Rachel insisted. "That way, you don't really have to deal with them. They buy you a drink, you thank them and make small talk for about five minutes, and then you make an excuse to go to the bathroom or find your friend or whatever. There's no expectations involved."

But I want expectations, Eve reflected. She felt sorry and somewhat embarrassed for the man Rachel had suckered into coming out with her. The poor guy was probably intimidated by Rachel's increasing volume and high spirits. As they sat there, Rachel begged him more than once to go dance with her, but he was too sober to comply, which in turn made her pouty and eventually led to her stalking off to go find the other girl they'd come with in order to have a partner on the dancefloor. This left Eve in an awkward position. She didn't really know this guy at all—couldn't even think of his name at the moment—and quickly began to wish she was at home in her little apartment, just curled up on the couch watching a movie. Her heart flitted back and forth between wanting to be out in the company of others and sequestering herself. Did she really have to be out, right now? Rachel had said it was good for her, but that meant nothing. Too often, people were convinced to do something under the pressure of thinking that it was good for them.

"So . . . what is that there?" the guy asked, pretty obviously feeling as awkward as she and just figuring he'd make conversation.

Eve realized he was pointing at her drink. "Oh! I don't know. Something the bartender suggested."

"Is it any good?"

"It's all right. A bit too sweet for me, really, but it's pretty good."

He smiled affably. "I've just got a PBR."

Eve didn't really know what to say after that. She didn't know this guy and would likely never see him again (Rachel went through men like she went through hair colors); plus, the more Eve thought about it, the more she just wanted to go home. She tried not to look too rude by occupying her attention with the people coming and going, hoping one might serve to further the conversation.

"Are you interested in people?" he asked.

His comment struck her. Hadn't she recently heard that question? She felt as if someone had just asked her that. A strange sensation overcame Eve, like a warming agent had been released into her bloodstream and was coursing through her, first her chest, then her arms and neck, up into her face. No, she remembered. Nobody asked me that. It's what Simon said. The boy—when she'd run into him at the comic shop—had told her that people interested him. Studying people and what they created, because they were all isolated, alone . . . she felt deeply in that moment that he was exactly right, and that she'd always known how self-isolated everyone was but had never quite thought about it. Here in this bar, she was lost in her own thoughts, and the man across from her was stuck wondering who-knew-what, feeling disconnected from her (maybe also wanting to go home), and Rachel was off in her own world, and so was every single other person in this place . . . in this city . . . in this world. No matter how occupied in conversation or entertainment or acts of pleasure a person was, he or she was inevitably entirely alone in his or her mind, locked in, like a caged creature. Thoughts were constrained by the knowledge and understandings of one solitary being. In the midst of a gathering with friends, one's thoughts were alone. In the middle of making love, one's thoughts were alone. As one taught a class or listened to a lecture, spent time with a parent or slept at night, his thoughts were forever inexorably alone. And what was it Simon had said after expressing this isolation? That everything human beings did—whether it was paint a picture or say hello—was an attempt to create a connection beyond that prison that manifested itself in every person's skull.

But he had forgotten something, Eve thought. He'd forgotten the deception in and falseness of those attempts. For every move to make a connection was planned, accounted for, thought through. When someone made a phone call, they were fully aware of which thoughts they wanted to share and which they wanted to hide. If a person engaged in conversation, they selected which notions to divulge in the discourse. Even now, when Eve talked to the man across from her, she was subconsciously choosing not to express what she was really thinking, as he likely was, and so the isolation would forever remain, because even when people attempted to connect with one another, they knew nothing else but to be discriminatory in how they did so, for fear of seeming foolish or odd otherwise. The pervasive disconnections amongst people were paradoxically perpetuated in their efforts to connect.

Rachel's man was saying something to her, pulling Eve's attention back to him. But she hadn't really heard, and he was looking at her expectantly, waiting for a response of some sort. Something akin to panic rose in her. Placing her glass on the bar, she said, "I'm sorry, I have to go. Tell Rachel I got a cab."

She was unable to even look him in the face when she said it, and she did not wait for him to ask her questions. She turned and left, feeling upset to the point of nausea.

Outside, Eve hailed a cab within two minutes and, getting in, gave the address of her apartment. Once alone in the back, with the cool night air breezily floating through the half-open car windows, she began to feel a little better. What had overtaken her in there? It was so unlike Eve to be overwhelmed with any sort of emotion, and it was even more unlike her to be rude. She felt momentarily horrible for just leaving that poor guy in there but was somewhat consoled by remembering she'd probably never see him again. In the annals of his memories, she'd be that one weird, rude girl who just left him in the middle of a conversation at a bar—if she remained in his memory at all.

Eve got her phone out of her purse to text Rachel an apology for leaving and as she flipped open the device realized that she had a missed call. Much to her shame, she found her heart initially fluttering at the thought that it might be Oscar, but she was disappointed to find that it was not him at all but a number without a name attached to it . . . one she somewhat recognized but couldn't place. Whoever it was, he or she had left a message, and Eve at first wanted to erase it, thinking it was probably either a telemarketer or someone with a wrong number who'd perhaps accidentally called her before. But, perhaps instinctually, she decided to key in her password and listen to it; her finger stayed on the seven button, ready to delete it the moment she realized it was worthless.

There was a strange crackling, static sound at the start of the message; she almost deleted it right then. But then a voice came through. "Hey, this is Joe."

Yep, a wrong number, she thought, quietly listening in the back of the cab.

"Don't know if you remember—I'm the guy that found your boyfriend a while ago, this ain't no check-up call or nothing. I'm actually calling for a friend of mine and yours, too. I know it's kinda weird but Simon—if you don't know him or this is the wrong number just ignore it. But if you know him, Simon is in some bad shape. His brother just got killed." There was a brief pause, then the message continued. "Anyway, not totally sure why I'm telling you it, cause you probably already know. But I think . . . I can tell he thinks something of you. You know. So maybe just say hi and talk to him or something. All right, that's all. No need to call back."

Astonished, Eve didn't put her phone down for about thirty seconds after the message had ended and her automated voicemail system had asked her for the second time what she wanted to do with it. She eventually deleted it, then slowly withdrew the device from the side of her face, replacing it in her purse. She had no clear thoughts on the fact that Joe had called her—let alone what he had said—until she arrived home, paid for the cab, climbed the stairs to her apartment, and was putting on her pajamas. How bizarre that he should have called her—that he'd even kept her number. And what in the world made him think she was friendly with Simon? Her only guess was that he'd seen her in the school office, returning his wallet. But their brief encounter there hadn't been anything that could make anyone think they knew each other as more than acquaintances. Nevertheless, for whatever reasons he may have had, Joe had called and left her this strange message.

Simon's brother had just died.

If it was true, Eve was sorry for him, but she hardly knew Simon and didn't even know he had a brother. What was she supposed to do? Wouldn't expressing her condolences be farcical? Almost cruel in its lack of sincerity?

She didn't really know what to think.

After brushing her teeth and taking care of all the normal before-bed things, Eve realized she hadn't ever sent that text to Rachel, so she did so as she climbed under her covers and turned out the light, staring at the glowing rectangle of light emanating from her cell-phone. The best she could do, she thought, was hope Simon was okay. That was all. Why, she didn't even know where he lived or how to get a hold of him, so there was no way of seeing him. She hadn't seen him in Toast since his school year had ended, and even a little prior to that. So there was no way of finding him unless she called that Joe back, which she wasn't going to do.

There. The matter was settled. There was nothing she could do about it. She put her phone on her bedside table and turned over to go to sleep.

Except . . . she realized that she knew where he worked. At that grocery store near her sister's apartment. That's right—they'd seen him at that—what was it . . . Food Mart?—when she'd helped Dawn get back in shape. There really was no excuse, save for that (if she was honest with herself) she was nervous to see him.

She hadn't seen her sister in a while, though. Maybe Dawn could use a visit. Eve knew she had a new roommate, but she'd yet to meet the person, and Dawn did need occasional checking-in-on. Maybe she'd go over there soon, and they could do a little grocery shopping.